Any Way You Want It, That's the Way You Need It
by SomewhereApart
Summary: A collection of all the prompts and such I've done on tumblr, finally here on FFnet for your reading pleasure. Some smutty, some not. I'll change the rating when the smutty ones go up. Mostly OQ, but not all.
1. Missing Year: At the breakfast buffet

_**Prompt:** enchanted forest missing year second day at breakfast. Little John and Regina at the breakfast buffet. At one point snow pinches Regina for something she says_

* * *

The first night back in the queen's castle had been mostly about finding sleeping arrangements – it had been a late hour when their ragtag party had arrived ready to take back the castle, only to discover it had been willingly handed back to them. There'd been dinner of sorts at the camp while they'd awaited the lowering of the shield, and so on that first night nobody sought sustenance but the Queen herself, and Robin.

When morning came, Little John rolled himself out of the uncomfortably soft bed he'd spent the night in, coughed a bit to clear his throat of dust (the whole castle was a bit dusty, but these rarely used rooms in the East Wing where the Merry Men were temporarily housed hadn't seen use since years before the curse, and had managed to collect a particularly thick layer). He dressed and grabbed his quiver – while Robin and the Queen had disappeared to scrounge up their own dinner, it had been decided that the Men would go out in the morning to hunt up something to feed the castle denizens.

He meets Robin in the hallway, bow-less, and his friend and leader smirks and assures him, "You can leave your bow behind, Little John. You won't be needing it."

"We're to go out and hunt for breakfast," John informs him, thinking surely someone else had told him this the evening prior. "It will be quite a late morning meal with the sun already up, and I can't imagine the _Queen_ likes to be kept waiting." She grumbles, "She'll probably turn us all into toads or worse."

Robin shakes his head, and chuckles, assuring the man, "I very much doubt that. And besides, there's no need for a hunt. Breakfast is already being prepared, I'm sure."

Little John frowns, asks how that can be so, and Robin claps a hand on his back and leads him toward the massive common chamber where they are to take their meals, telling him, "Let's just say the Queen never expected to return here with a full staff of help and the support of her people."

They'd been prepared to go hungry for a while, or nearly so. Had been prepared for their usual hard work of hunting up pheasants, digging up nutritious roots, boiling the less flavorful vegetation into soups and stews with tough chimera meat. What the denizens of the Queen's castle hadn't been prepared for was an entire store room stocked full with meats, and cheese, fruits and soft pastries, eggs and dense, brown bread – all magically preserved by the Queen's own hand before she'd cast her curse. All there waiting for her return, should she need to feed and fend for herself.

When John walks into the hall, the aroma that greets him has his mouth watering and his stomach growling. Along one wall, there is a veritable buffet of breakfast foods. Flapjacks and griddled bread, with pitchers of syrup and bricks of butter, sausages and bacon, eggs smothered with cheese, eggs mixed with peppers and onion, eggs by themselves. Baskets of biscuits, trays of nut-covered sticky buns, and a neatly stacked mountain of sweet cakes being unceremoniously torn down by those who move along the table and pile their plates. At the end there are pitchers of juice and boiled water for tea.

Little John hasn't seen a spread like this in years - since before the curse, since he lived a very different life. He turns to Robin with a bewildered grin, and together the men head for the tables. It's just their luck that they happen to join the line right behind the Princess and the Queen herself. The Queen is complaining, was loathe to share her spoils – or at least this much of them – with those in the castle, but the Princess dismisses her mildly.

"Regina, it's good for morale," Snow White insists, gesturing around them before grabbing a plate (ornate, fine china. The sort of thing the Merry Men used to pilfer and sell off to held those who would never dream of affording such finery). "Look how happy everyone is."

"Yes, well," the Queen bites. "Let's just hope they're still happy when they find out they've eaten all their food on the first day." She cranes her head back then, her dark eyes landing dead on Little John. "Do keep in mind that if you clear the whole buffet, you'll starve for supper and so will we all."

The Princess frowns and reaches over, giving the Queen's arm a light pinch of admonishment (Little John can't believe she'd dare – the young princess who spent so much time running from this very same woman who wanted her dead and buried), and insisting there's plenty of food.

The Queen has frozen, livid, gripping her plate until her knuckles whiten, eyes wide, teeth clenched.

It's Robin who breaks the tension, or tries to anyway, saying affably, "Don't worry, milady. I'll make sure my Men don't eat you out of hearth and home."

"It's Your Majesty," the Queen growls, but she takes a step forward and reaches to serve herself a slice of griddled bread. As loathe as he is to agree with the woman on anything, John imagines that her preserved cabinets must not be limitless, and food really is scarce, so while he fills his plate he tries not to be greedy.

It does not escape his notice, though, that in front of him the Queen piles her plate to excess - the griddled bread with butter and syrup, four pieces of bacon and two sausages, cheesy eggs and peppered, too, a biscuit, two sticky buns, three sweet cakes. She's balancing the whole thing precariously on one hand, the other clutching a goblet filled with apple cider, and as he watches her make her way to a table with the Princess, as he hopes just a little bit that she will trip and it will all go flying, Little John things to himself that it looks like he is not the one who struggles with restraint at the breakfast buffet.


	2. Oblivion-verse: On the Desk

_Prompt: On the desk OQ - fifty shades verse (or any verse if you'd rather) Please and Thank you!_

* * *

Regina finds submission oddly… calming. She'd never have imagined that, would never have thought she'd get as much out of it as she has, but ever since that first night when he'd come home with the handcuffs they'd never ended up using, she'd found a certain freedom in being able to let go completely and just trust him. And of course, there's the mindblowing orgasms. Can't forget those.

So yes, she enjoys it, and she finds that for some reason, when she settles into that place inside her, the one where breathlessly calling him "Sir" seems less and less silly (she does it sometimes just to rile him, will squeeze past him in the kitchen and murmur "Excuse me, Sir" and watch his nostrils flare and his pupils blow - he's past the point where he can try to deny that he gets anything out of taking the reins), everything else just… melts away. A bad day becomes inconsequential, her twisting anxiety unspools. She finds the whole experience… relaxing?

And Robin is nothing if not hyper aware of her, so it should come as no surprise that he knows this to be true. Which means on days like today - when by the time he saunters into her office on his lunch break she is already drowning in paperwork and a seemingly endless stream of phone calls from her constituents about one complaint or another (she sometimes misses when they were terrified of her - they were much less demanding then), a headache beginning to brew behind her right eyeball - he takes one look at her, tilts his head curiously and sets aside the takeout he'd arrived with.

"I don't have time for lunch," she grumbles, flipping a page on a report she's reviewing. "I'm sorry, but maybe another day. I'll try to be home for dinner–"

He's bent over the desk, just enough that he can reach her, his fingers cuffing around her wrists and holding firm.

Regina's mouth goes dry.

Oh.

This is how it starts, more often than not - especially on days where submission becomes stress relief. She'll be all riled up about something, and Robin's hands will find her wrists, will hold and squeeze, a perfectly innocent expression of promise. A silent question - does she want to be bound?

And yes, oh yes, that's just what she needs right now. Maybe she has time for lunch after all.

Her pulse is already starting to thud with anticipation as she whispers to him, "Get the door." He lifts his brows expectantly, says nothing until she adds, "Sir."

Then he smirks, and shakes his head. "No, my love. You get the door - and get rid of your receptionist for the hour while you're at it."

But Regina's stomach goes hot, and she finds herself shaking her head, admitting, "I want her to stay."

Robin grins. "You'll have to be quiet."

"Not necessarily…" Regina rises from her desk rounds to the other side of it, pads barefoot across the cool floors of her office and tells Andrea she's not to be disturbed on her lunch hour. Then she shuts the door, flips the lock as quietly as she can manage and lifts her hands, a shimmery barrier of magic slithering along the circumference of the room and then disappearing.

A little bit of magical soundproofing goes a long way when you're having sex in public - or in a home you share with two boys.

"That's cheating," Robin tells her, leaning against the other side of her desk now.

Regina lifts her shoulder, lets it fall. "I like knowing she's there. Doesn't mean I want to give her a show." To that end, she reaches for the sheer curtains that frame the window behind her desk, intent on closing them. Robin stops her with a hand on her wrist.

"No. Leave it open."

Regina swallows heavily. Okay. Oh, God. Okay. She glances outside, decides that the view from the ground should anyone look up will be… indicative but not terribly obvious. Unless he takes her against the window. God, she's already wet.

She licks her lips, presses her thighs together and breathes, "Yes, Sir."

Robin smiles flirtatiously, stepping up closer, into her space, one finger hooking around a button in the middle of her crisp white blouse, fiddling with it as he says to her, "I'd like you to step back into your heels, my love. And then remove anything you might be wearing beneath that skirt."

Regina inhales, nods, murmurs, "Yes, Sir," and does just that. She shimmies out of her thong first, wriggles her snug black skirt up her hips and draws down the flimsy bit of lace, watches Robin eye it with approval and then pluck it from her fingers, shove it into his pocket. He'll be keeping that for the rest of the day, he informs her, and her breath goes shallow. She's… not usually quite so affected so quickly - today is going to be a doozy, she can already tell. And so can he, she knows he can - she's well acquainted with the smugness behind his eyes, with the smirking he tries only so hard to quell.

She steps past him, back toward the center of her desk, to where she'd kicked off her heels earlier, stepping back into her black stilettos and then straightening her skirt, turning back to face him. Waiting.

Robin gives her a slow once-over, then reaches for the buttons of her top, releasing them one by one. As he does, he says, her name, once, leading. "Regina…"

"Yes, Sir?"

He's halfway down now, has revealed the nude lace of her bra, is tugging the bottom of her shirt from her waistband. "I told you heels first."

Oh. He had. He'd said heels, and then strip, and she'd done the opposite, and curse him for being so damn specific when she was too horny to listen properly. He had to know she'd mess it up. "I'm sorry, Sir, I didn't realize."

"Because you didn't listen?" Robin pushes her shirt from her shoulders, the light skimming of the fabric against her arms as it goes making her shiver.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I'm a bit… distracted."

"So I see. Bend over the desk," he tells her nonchalantly, his attention on folding her top neatly and setting it aside. God, does he have any idea how hot that is? That sort of casual dominance, the way he talks as though he's not… doing what it is he's doing, what he's about to be doing. He must know; it must be why he does it.

Regina does as asked, bending herself across the surface, planting her elbows atop a city budget report and clenching at the knowledge that she's about to be fucked on top of the town business. They should do this here more often.

His hand falls on the middle of her back and she tenses slightly and then relaxes under his gentle touch. His palm presses down against her as he urges, "All the way, my love. And spread your ankles just a bit, please." She sinks down until her belly is against the surface now, shifts her heels about a foot apart and breathes. "Hands behind your back."

Oh, God.

She reaches back, clasps her hands together, and then there's the shifting clink of metal, the coolness of cuffs circling her wrists and latching shut. Oh, God, oh God…

"Did you bring the keys?" she teases breathlessly. "Because if you didn't, we're in a lot of trouble." (He's not really - she could break out of these with a bit of magic if she had to, but they like to pretend her bondage is just that.)

His hand comes down to the desk in front of her, depositing said key on the surface right in front of her face. "That's enough cheek from you, I think," he tells her, punctuating it with a sharp smack to her ass. It's dulled by her skirt, but it's plenty, enough to have her moaning roughly, and Robin chuckling behind her.

"You're all riled up today, aren't you, love?" he asks, although his pleased tone makes it perfectly clear he knows the answer.

Still, she parrots, "Yes, Sir," and gulps as he begins to draw her skirt up, and up, and up, ever so slowly.

"You know the rules," he tells her. "No coming without permission, and Regina?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"You do not have permission."

She won't, for a very long time, she thinks. As long as she can stand, and then some. That's usually his M.O., and today will be no different. She confirms, then curls her toes in her shoes when her ass (and everything else she has to offer) is finally exposed - facing the window, no less, my God, she hopes all anyone can see from the ground is Robin. His fingertips find her, sliding through her wetness, and he lets out a little groan of surprise. When he ghosts against her clit, she bucks reflexively, and his hand settles against her hips again with an order to stay perfectly still.

She hates that - hates when he asks that (loves it, but hates it). When she's to stay still, no writhing, no jerking, no pressing her body up against his. At least he hasn't told her to be quiet on top of it - that's the real torture, keeping everything, every movement and every sound, suppressed down and inside while he makes her _feel_ things. Those are the times that make her dizzy, the times that test her resolve. But that's not today, today is just stillness, and stillness she can do. She links her fingers, the cuffs clinking as she moves, then wriggles a little until she's truly comfortable, exhales, and waits.

"Good girl," he praises, and she thinks sometimes that she should take offense to all this - to the things like that, where he talks to her like a child or an obedient puppy - but the desire to do well was ingrained in her from the cradle, and she feeds off of her obedience being acknowledged for once.

The first smack - to her right cheek and hard enough to sting but not enough to make her jerk - has breath rushing out of her in a whoosh. His hand chases it, a soft caress over the curve of her ass, as he asks, "Good?"

He's always checking on her, even now, even when he's well acquainted with her limits. "Yes, Sir," she breathes, and then, "May I ask how many, Sir?"

"I'd say ten sounds like a nice round number, wouldn't you?" he tells her evenly, his palm leaving her skin again, and she braces for the next spank.

It doesn't come until the middle of her, "Yes, Si–IR!" and it has her head lolling, her sex clenching, a wave of pleasure blooming out from the sharp sensation of his palm. That bite of pain, and then tingling warmth, and nothing else matters now, just this, just them, just the way she feels.

"I said be still, Regina," he chastises, his hand moving forward to tilt her head back to where it had been. Right. Right. Be still, everything, all of her. She can be still.

"I'm sorry, Sir," she murmurs, lashes fluttering shut until all she sees is darkness, all she feels is anticipation.

"Do you need to focus?" he asks, and she nods. What he's asking is _Does she need to shift inside herself further?_ , to center herself and let it all fall away. And yes, she does, she is, she's trying, but when he steps away, she blinks her eyes open and seeks him out, finds him over by her conference table (they should have done this _there_ , she thinks, with a sudden flash of her body spread out, bound and splayed like the Vitruvian Man while he peppered her skin with marks from a riding crop - another time, for sure…), reaching for the chair with her coat and purse draped atop them.

He comes back with the silk scarf she'd worn that day, and Regina presses her lips together (he's come back with a noticeable bulge in his pants, too, she observes smugly). He smoothes the scarf into a thin strip, then wraps the soft material over her eyes, ties it behind her head, and Regina lets out a quiet moan. Oh, this is perfect, this is good. She goes boneless against the desk, wrists bound, eyes covered, body still, so perfectly still.

"Good?" he checks, and she whispers an affirmative. "Will you count for me?"

"Down or up, Sir?"

"Down," he requests, his palm gentle on her rear again. "Do you remember the number?"

"This will be eight, Sir."

"Good girl," he confirms, and then his hand draws away, a rush of air and then a hard, stinging _Eight!_ Oh, God, he's not holding back. _Seven!_ damn near echoes in the office, has her wincing, but she can take it, she wants to take it. _Five!_ is noticeably gentler, but still has her rear feeling hot, still has sweat blooming on her skin. By _Two!_ her thighs are shaking, and _One!_ is a desperate exhale that has her fingers twisting together.

She needs to come. Now. She's throbbing, arousal and heat, and she can imagine the red, flushed palm prints all over her bottom, can imagine the way she's going to shift uncomfortably on top of them during her meeting this afternoon. She's going to be wet for the rest of the damn day, and he's taking her panties with him. Evil bastard.

"How do you feel?" he asks her gently, his hand rubbing soothingly, then leaving for a moment, she can feel him reach across her, can hear something slide slightly on the desk nearby. She tells him _Good_ , and _Aroused_ , and then his hand is back on her, but this time it's cool and damp, slicking lotion over her abused skin. She feels a rush of affection for him that nearly has her eyes tearing - he's always so good to her afterward, always so attentive. Brings her water, or rubs her sore wrists, massages lotion into reddened skin (squeezes and rubs and sets residual throbs of agonizing pleasurepain through her as he does). He wounds, and then he heals, and maybe it's not what anyone would consider normal, maybe it's nothing she wants anyone to ever find out about, but it feels good, feels right, feels safe.

Regina has spent her whole life living in extremes - turmoil, and anger, and loneliness and, yes, all too often, pain. Captivity. Denial. They're old friends to her now, those feelings, and in the relative calm of her life, she finds this physical intensity is no bother at all. She's safe with Robin, safe like this, and something about pushing at the edges of sensation is comforting to her. Like she can endure pain without fear, she can be bound without low-grade panic, she can give him free reign of her body without worrying she'll come out of it feeling debased or used. She's sure Archie would have a field day with her if she ever gave him the chance.

But this isn't for Archie, or for anyone else's judgement, it's for her, for them, and when his lingering massage of her rear ends with him sinking two fingers into her (they go in with no resistance, she's ridiculously wet), she stops thinking about what anyone else might think, or what all of this might mean, and she just squirms.

He says her name once, warningly, and she stills. Right. Still doing that, then.

His fingers thrust and thrust, angled _just right_ to send pleasure pulsing through her. This is unfair, he is unfair, he knows what it does to her when he thumps his fingers against that spot, and then he picks up speed and force, and Regina is crying out, everything going tight and tense, needy. Fuck, she's going to come - she's going to come and she's not sure she can stop it.

"Please!" she gasps, her voice needy and desperate even to her own ears. "Please, may I come? Oh, God, please m-may- I - I - R-Robin, I!" His hand falls on the outside of her hip and she jerks and writhes, fuck, _fuck_ , oh no, " _Sir!_ Please! I! Aaaah!"

She stiffens, sliding up to that precipice despite her best efforts to seek permission, and then his fingers are gone. Just gone. She's empty, her thighs clenched, her toes curled, her knees tight. Fuck, God, she hates when he does this (she loves when he does this).

His palm on her back again, that way he does. Steady, to center her, and he urges, "Settle down."

Regina lets out a ragged breath and forces her muscles to relax one by one (thighs, calves, toes, arms, back…), a low whimper escaping her as she comes back to herself. As she settles, just the way he wants her too. His fingertips are soft on her spine, trailing up, down, up, down. "That's it, my love…" he coaxes, and she exhales out again, lets her body go soft.

And then she hears the telltale scratch of his zipper being lowered, the clink and shnick of his belt undone and pulled loose, and her pulse stutters. She's not sure if she's about to be belted for moving a moment ago, or fucked to prolong the torment of orgasm denial, and either way, she's screwed.

"Sir, I don't think–" She swallows heavily; her throat is dry. "I don't think I can keep from coming if you do that."

"Is that so?" he asks her, and she feels fabric against her ankles, the phantom warmth of a nearby body against her skin, and then the head of his cock against her entrance. That answers that questions. "I think you can last a full minute, at least," he tells her as he sinks in slowly, the sensation of being filled raising goosebumps across her neck, a soft _hunh_ escaping her lips and then a whispered _Please_. She's not so sure he's right about that. She takes all of him, takes him in until he's pressed tight against her rear and she's moaning quietly. She thinks he'll move, but he doesn't. Instead he just runs his palms along her back, up and down, slow and steady. "You feel amazing," he breathes, giving her hips a squeeze.

Regina writhes, her hips twitching. She's not sure if she needs him to move, or needs him to be still. Both. She needs to come, _needs_ to come, needs to relieve the aching pressure that is slowly consuming her, and if he moves, she will, but she doesn't have permission. His name slips from her lips, low and keening, and his hands grip her shoulders now, firm and warm.

"Just breathe," he urges, thumbs kneading into her tensed muscles, easing the ache of having her hands stretched behind her for so long. "I'll give you a moment before you have to beg again."

Regina huffs a laugh, because at least they're both aware of the reality here. Right. Breathe. Breathe, Regina. Be still. She can do this. She is in control of her body, it is all hers, so she focuses inward, relaxes and breathes, relaxes and breathes. Robin stays still inside her, buried deep, doesn't move anything but his steadily caressing hands until she is loose and limp against the surface of the desk, her breathing evened out to match the lazy pace of his hands. One reaches up to brush away a lock of hair that's draped across her cheek, tickling the corner of her lip, sliding it back to her neck. "There you are," he murmurs, but it has nothing to do with the hair, with her face. She knows that. "Are you ready for me?"

And she is, she can handle it now, can take a little more, so she nods. "Yes, Sir."

He starts slow, fucking her lazily, but he builds from the very beginning, each thrust a little faster, a little harder. Soon she's moaning again, feeling the build of heat, of pleasure, her thighs beginning to shake.

"Sir, may I move? Please?" She wants to fuck him, want to rock her hips back, wants to be greedy, to take.

"You may," he permits, and that's a good sign - permission of any kind increases the chance he's going to let her come this time. She adjusts her stance a little, wiggles her stiff knees, then juts her hips back at him as best she can with no leverage. It doesn't accomplish much, but at least now she can toss her head back when he grasps her hips and starts to pound fast, hard, can lift a foot and drop it back down with a sharp clack of heel on marble as she cries out. The metal at her wrists twists and pinches, his hand gripping the chain between the cuffs and twisting it tighter, and fuck, oh, fuck, "Oh, Ro–Sir, please! Please, I need to-! Please, I'm going to–! May I–!"

"Finish your sentence, love," he pants, that bastard, and she groans and tries to focus on anything other than the way he's filling her again and again and again.

"May I-I please c-come, Sir?"

"Not yet," he rasps, and then he's tugging at her, pulling her upright, and she nearly stumbles to adjust her weight. He has one arm around her hips now, and the switch in angle has him fucking right up against her g-spot, oh God, this isn't fair, he can't do this, she has to come, _needs_ to come, she can feel the tense, hot coil of it in her belly, can feel the ache of it grow acute in her clit, and then he has a hand there, too, rubbing her firmly as he takes her and she cannot, _cannot_. Regina screams, sobs out another plea to come, this is too much, she can't hold back any longer, please, oh please, please, please.

When he pulls out of her again, just on the cusp of her orgasm, she buckles and whines.

"Robin, please," she whispers, his chest solid against her back (and still cotton-clad, he hasn't removed anything but his pants and underwear – even those are still around his feet – and she's in her bra and skirt and good God, this is hot, this is so hot, how can he expect her to last when it's like this?).

"Do you need your safe word?" he asks, nuzzling into her hair, kissing the back of her head, and no, it's not that. It's not like that. She can take more.

So she shakes her head and says, "No, Sir."

"Alright." Another kiss to her hair, and he urges. "On your knees, my love."

She has no balance, not with her hands bound behind her like this, so he has to help her down, but down she goes, resigned to the fact that she won't be coming in the next few minutes. She coughs lightly, her throat like sandpaper, and he strokes his fingertips along her shoulder, asks if she needs a drink.

"Yes, please."

She can hear him toe off his shoes and kick out of them and his jeans, and then he's slipping the blindfold from her head (on the one hand, she's a little disappointed at the loss, but on the other, he doesn't send her to her knees for much, and if she's going to be sucking cock, she doesn't want to do it blindly). Opening her eyes is a little disorienting, everything seems bright and wobbly for a second as she blinks rapidly.

And then she looks down, sees herself, kneeling behind her desk, her skin flushed with arousal, pink against the nude of her bra, her skirt a rumpled ring around her hips, thighs parted as she waits for him to come back and have his wicked way with her. Just the imagery has her moaning and squirming.

"What are you doing over there?" he asks teasingly from where he's made his way to her bar and is filling a glass from the pitcher of water she keeps there.

"Writhing," she admits thickly, and he laughs at her, low and sexy and wonderful.

When he comes back, he pushes his fingers lightly through the hair at her crown, holding the cup to her lips and letting her gulp greedily at it. She sucks down half the contents, and then he's drawing it away, setting it on the window ledge (he must still have plans for that desk, then), and asking, "Are you happy, my love?"

"Very," she tells him, giving him a smile and rolling her shoulders, the cuffs making their presence known.

"Do you need those gone?" he asks. "Need to shake your arms out?"

They're in a pause, it seems - they have these, nearly every time. A moment during a scene where they break for water, for a check-in. Usually it means she's just come so hard she's seen stars, but her biceps are aching, so she'll take it now rather than later. It seems he's hellbent on denying her today anyway.

She nods and Robin reaches for the key on her desktop, crouches down to release her wrists. The first thing Regina does is tug her skirt down to cover her ass and plop herself down onto the floor. As she pulls her arms forward and stretches them out, eases the ache, he glances pointedly at where she's sitting. "You alright?"

Regina nods, tells him, "Yeah, I just get the impression I'm about to spend some time down here and marble isn't exactly kind to the knees."

Robin frowns, asks, "Would you rather something else?"

"I'll be fine," she assures, giving her shoulders a good roll because Robin is still gripping the cuffs despite the fact he's already set the key back on the desk. They're going back on, no doubt. "Just sitting while I can."

He hums his approval, then leans in and kisses her lips lightly, asks her, "How's all that stress you were under when I walked in?"

Her grin is quick and easy. "All but gone."

"Good." Another quick peck, and he offers, "If you'd rather, I can make you come and get out of your hair. If you really are swamped."

She is, but suddenly it seems so much less important than it had an hour ago. "It can wait," she tells him. "I have a meeting at three, but if you can take care of dinner, I'd like to finish this."

"Deal," he agrees, and then he's sucking in a deep breath the way he does when he's trying to shift from Robin-the-caring-boyfriend to Robin-the-dominating-lover, and she knows their little break is over. "Up," he urges, and back onto her knees she goes, arms moving behind her back before he even asks. He clips the handcuffs on again and asks, "Are you okay to use your mouth?"

Her _Mmhmm_ is automatic, and she forgets the Sir, takes a little longer to slip back into her role than he does today, it seems. But there's no punishment, not even a warning. It's no surprise, though. With this - him in her mouth - the rules are always a bit gentler. She… doesn't love this – didn't love this, for a long time. Too many bad memories of strong hands fisting in her long hair, of gagging painfully on a cock that never seemed terribly impressive any other time she had to deal with it but was always overwhelming when someone was trying to stuff it halfway down her throat. She'd hated this, for years. Had refused to do it, for years. Has only done it for that man, and for Robin. But they're working on it, she's working through it. She wants this, for him. And for her, too. Wants there to be nothing she is unwilling to do because of what was done to her.

She's already made progress, can open her mouth for him now and let him guide his cock toward her without feeling that curl of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. He slides one hand to her shoulder, the other holding his cock steady as she laves her tongue down the length of him, and then back up, starts sucking kisses along the underside the way she's learned he likes.

Robin huffs out a soft breath, and murmurs, "Can you still taste yourself, my love?"

"Yes, Sir," she answers, her lips brushing against his cock as she speaks, her tongue sneaking out to follow a vein from the side up nearly to the tip as he murmurs something about how wet she'd been when he was inside her. Practically dripping. He can't wait to be inside her again, to feel her all around him as she comes. Regina moans in agreement, and then she takes him in just enough that she can work her tongue underneath his foreskin and give it a swirl. He moans breathily, his hips jerking slightly, and Regina grins. Does it again. His breath shudders out and she feels a little lick of triumph.

She's grown to like this - not just to tolerate, not just to try it because she thinks he deserves it while all the while her palms are sweaty and she's shoving at the images of times past. But to actually enjoy the little ways in which she can make him tremble or gasp. Enjoys the way his fingers are going to flex against her shoulder just so as she sucks him in deeper. (They do, predictably.) Enjoys the way his other hand falls away from his cock to fist at his side, gripping, relaxing, gripping, relaxing as her head bobs deeper and deeper over him. He wants to touch, has to hold himself back, has to keep himself from threading his fingers into her hair - and he always _does_ hold back, something that inexplicably turns her on. His restraint, his utter resolve to never do anything that makes her anxiety well up. It makes her want to give him more, to tease him longer, to reward his relentless chivalry with the best damn blowjob she can muster.

"Suck, love," he breathes, and she realizes for all her drawing back and forth, she's not put much force behind it, so on her next pull back she slows down, sucks firmly, listens to him groan. She draws back, back, back until he slips from her lips and bounces slightly in front of her face.

"Like that, Sir?" she flirts, and he nods, rakes his fingers once through her hair while he's not in her mouth and urges _Just like that_ , drawing her back toward him with a gentle hand cupped at the back of her skull. He lets go just before he bumps against her lips, and she has to tilt her head a little to suck him back in, but she manages, drawing him in deeper and deeper, a slow, steady suck, just the way he'd taken her before. She pauses halfway down, breathes in and out through her nose, then keeps going deeper, deeper, angling her head slightly and loosening the suction, opening her jaw a little wider, taking more, more.

"God, Regina," Robin gasps, and her pulse is thudding hard now, she doesn't usually take him so deep, but today she wants to, needs to, loves the way he's lost every bit of his take-charge personality just because she has her lips wrapped around him. She takes a little bit more, until she's a hair from gagging, and then draws back and forth, back and forth, short little bobs that have him panting. Her balance is a little off, she wishes she was about two inches closer, but it's not terribly uncomfortable, not nearly as uncomfortable as the hard marble under her kneecaps.

But when she swirls her tongue against him on the next bob, it has his hips twitching, his cock jabbing back into her throat and she gags and coughs, Robin drawing her head back immediately and spilling apologies profusely.

"It's alright, I'm alright," she assures, clearing her throat and swallowing, shaking it off. Sometimes that's the end of this, has her feeling shaky and ridiculous, one little accidental jerk of his hips and they have to call the whole thing off, but today she's good. Today she scoots forward slightly, winces as the skin of her knee catches a little on the floor, adjusts, and then gets right back to her task. She starts with tongue again, and Robin's hands go back to the way they'd started, one at her shoulder, one at the base of his cock.

She focuses on his head for a while, sucking it in, then drawing back until it just slips from her lips, taking it in again, and back, in, and back. Her fingers twitch - this would be so much better for him if she could stroke while she teases him - not that he seems to mind. A glance up reveals him watching her, slack-jawed, his belly expanding and contracting with unsteady breaths.

God, he's stunning. Such a beautiful man, so strong, and all hers, at her mercy entirely. She feels the thrill of dominance for a moment, of what she can make him do, and she sucks him in deeper, deeper, deeper again. His breath shakes and he stiffens, trying to hold himself still for her, she thinks, and so she takes more, more, pauses at the point she was at before, the almost full point, and takes a deep, slow breath. She's going to do this. She's going to relax, relax everything, and take as much of him as she can stand, and he is going to go wild for her, and it will be incredible. He will light up the way she does for him, he'll see exactly how damn hard it is to hold back and be still when all you want to do is writhe and twitch and cry out.

It's her turn, she thinks, fighting down a smirk.

And then she takes more. She will not gag, she won't, she relaxes her throat, eases forward slowly, slowly.

"Fuck, Regina," he blurts, and this time she can't fight the smile. He's trembling. Good. "Love, I'm - I'll - I don't want to - hurt you."

She draws back, back, releases him from her mouth (for a second there's a thin thread of spit from the tip of his cock to her lip, stretching like spiderweb, but then it breaks and she licks her lip, swipes it away). She gives her wrists a little twist and the cuffs break easily with the aid of a little pulse of magic, her hands rising to grasp his hips and nudge him back toward the desk.

He goes, oofs quietly as he stumbles a little and practically knocks into it, steadying himself with hands on either side of his hips.

Regina follows, grasps his cock in her hand now and strokes it lazily, looking up at him through her lashes and telling him, "You… are not allowed to come. Until I say so."

Robin's eyes fall shut, breath huffing out as he smiles and nods and swallows hard - he sees where this is going, and, thank heavens, has no apparent complaints.

"Yes, ma'am," he rasps, and Regina chuckles, flicks her tongue against the tip of him and earns a little hiss of pleasure.

"And you have to be still," she tells him, because he will suffer pleasantly just the way that she suffers pleasantly, or she will die trying.

"Yes, ma'am," he answers, but that's not… right. It's not what she wants. Ma'am. It just doesn't feel like… enough.

Her hand works his cock some more as she muses over the options - Mistress seems a bit too much like she should be wearing pleather and wielding a whip, Your Majesty could be fun, bring back memories of that year they'd spent pestering and flirting in the Enchanted Forest. And then there's always Madame Mayor. Yes, she rather likes that - considering where they are.

She grins, and corrects him, "Madame Mayor. And I want you to keep those hands on the desk until I say otherwise, is that clear?"

When he licks his lips and breathes, "Yes, Madame Mayor," she feels a fresh flood of heat swirl through her belly. Oh yes, that's the one.

"Now be a good boy," she urges, and then she sucks him in again, deep, all the way and then some, quick at first and then slow once he reaches the back of her throat again. Slow and careful as she takes him further, and he moans roughly, his thigh trembling under the hand that isn't wrapped around him. He twitches a little, not enough to disturb her, but she can feel his muscles jumping under her palm so she shifts her grip, both hands against his hips and holding tight (Robin moans again, deep and pleasured, and who knew both of them were switch hitters for this sort of thing?). And then she really gets going.

She alters between taking him deep, with those short, shallow bobs, as much of him inside her as she can manage, and drawing back to suck and lick at his tip again, back and forth, one and then the other, until she hears it: "M-Madame Mayor, p-please."

Regina flushes with heat, takes him deep again (it gets easier the more she does it, she manages longer passes in and out of her throat now, keeps herself from gagging by sheer force of will and rapidly ramping arousal).

"Please, love-" Her nails bite into his hips suddenly and he jerks (thank God she was pulling back). "Mada-mmm, please, I need you. Want to be inssside you. Please, Madame Mayor, p-please…"

God, that _is_ hot, no wonder he's always so rock hard for her by the time they finish like this. She's hot and slippery, can feel everything slide every time she shifts her knees (and she does have that 3:00…), so Regina decides there's no point in wasting any more time and draws back, sucking hard as she goes, raking another rough groan out of him before releasing him with a wet pop.

And then she stands, wincing at the soreness in her knees, Robin's hands on her elbows guiding her up. He's kissing her immediately, hot and wet and full of tongue and she spins them until she can scoot back onto the desk herself and tug him between her thighs.

"Now," she urges, spreading her thighs wider. "Hard."

"Gladly," he mutters, reaching down between them and guiding his cock into her in one easy thrust, twin moans echoing between them at the satisfaction. Robin doesn't waste time, starts taking her hard, deep, fast, just the way she wants, one arm scooping up under her knee to draw it up along his ribs. She gasps at the pleasant shift in angle and he pauses long enough to do the same with the other leg, giving her a little tug further to the edge of the desk (those budget reports are a wrinkled mess by now, no doubt), and then starting to pump into her again. She's folded like a pretzel (thank God she's limber), but it butts him up against that spot inside her, grinds him against her clit on every thrust and as he fucks into her with abandon, she cries out and snaps her head back.

Yes, this, oh, God, this is - perfect - oh - just what she - god she can't even - think straight - fuck - oh -

Robin is moaning and gasping and babbling brokenly, his mind just as much of a jumbled, pleasured mess as hers no doubt, and it doesn't take them long at all to finish, Robin pleading desperately ("My love, my l-love, come for- fuck- I can't - Godletmeseeyou…") while Regina rakes her nails down his back and shrieks as her orgasm hits hard.

It's one of those ones where she sees stars, made all the better by the time she spent waiting for it, pleasure so intense she can taste it, her belly scrunching and seizing, her nails digging into Robin's ribs as she cries out, shouts, fuck it all, nobody will hear her, so she lets loose as she jerks and trembles.

And then both collapse, spent and sweaty, Robin's heavy weight on her torso.

For a minute, all they can do is catch their breath, her hands rubbing soothingly up and down his ribs (he hisses as she passes over where she'd gouged into him as they came, but another pass of her hands and the wounds shimmer into nothing).

"Well," she pants. "That was… quite the lunch."

Robin snickers into her neck, nuzzling his face in with a scratch of stubble and teasing, "And I didn't even get to eat."

Regina grins, laughs at his rather terrible innuendo and gives back some of her own:

"Well, you did promise me dinner, but I can be dessert."


	3. Prompt: rough, biting, scratching

_Prompt: rough, biting, scratching (posted October 31, 2014)_

* * *

She isn't doing this.

She isn't doing this. She doesn't do this. She will not do this.

She has told herself this since the day she first laid eyes on him. Okay, not the day she _first_ laid eyes on him, because that was decades ago and they were both different people then - or at least she was, she imagines - but then again, she'd shut the door on him then, and run, so maybe she'd been thinking the same thing then…

Her back collides with a tree trunk, his torso pinning hers a second later, knocking the air out of her with an _oof!_ , and she decides she probably shouldn't be thinking at all.

Not when his mouth is on her collar, then over her pulse point, sucking, grazing her with his teeth.

"Is that all you've got, thief?" she challenges, meant for it to sound regal and critical, but it's too breathy for that. She's too far gone in this.

She knew this was a bad idea from the very moment Snow suggested - no, decreed - it. She and Robin Hood, alone, on a scouting mission. He, because he was the best tracker in the bunch. She, because she had the sense for magic that could lead them to the Wicked Witch's whereabouts.

They'd been entirely unsuccessful in their mission, but have somehow managed to end up here, like this, panting and groping under the light of a full moon, in the middle of the forest. Far from the castle. Far from prying eyes. From anyone's judgement but their own.

And so their usual banter and bicker had mutated into something else, something hotter, and then he'd kissed her, or she'd kissed him, she's not entirely sure anymore. And now here they are, her back against a tree, one knee hiked up against his hip, her riding coat loose and open as he digs his teeth into her collarbone and growls his frustration, giving the ties of her corset a rough yank.

"Why can't I get this bloody thing off," he grumbles into her skin, and Regina laughs at him.

"Lack of experience?" she taunts, and he looks up at her with those blue, blue eyes, dark now with lust and anger.

"Hardly," he mutters, tugging her, turning her until she's face-to-face with the bark of the tree, thick and ridged, dotted with moss. Robin yanks the coat from her arms, lets it drop to the dirt, and she wants to scowl and bite and complain that red velvet doesn't belong on the forest floor, and quite frankly neither does she if this is what he has in mind, and this rough treatment is no way to behave with a Queen. But she keeps her mouth shut, bites down on her lip to ensure it, because she doesn't _want_ to be the Queen right now, never did in the first place, and she _likes_ that this man, this thief, this outlaw, is about to fuck her senseless in the great wide open.

For the first time since they returned to this godforsaken forest, she feels free, unfettered, unbothered. So she lets him, lets him toss her coat to the dirt, lets him worry free the double knot keeping her corset bound (this one has seen better days, but it's comfortable enough for a long ride, so she'd made do). When the corset his free, he turns her again, palms her breasts through the thin material of her blouse, seeks out the nipples hard from the cool night air and squeezes them, twists until her jaw drop and her lashes flutter.

It's his smirking chuckle that wakes her from her submission, that has her eyes blinking back open, darker, more predatory. Queen or not, she's still Regina, and she will not just let him… do this, while she stands there docile.

"Kiss me," she orders (it's an order, not a plea, it's not a plea, no matter how much it may have sounded that way to her ears), and he is all too happy to oblige. Mouths meet, tongues tangling, and she licks at his lower lip, then nips it gently, thinks better of it and bites again, harder. Robin just groans, his hands on her hips now, squeezing as he kisses her more fiercely.

He gives back as good as he gets, and their mouths go messy, fighting each other, teeth clacking into each other gracelessly. Biting, sucking, scraping until mouth their mouths are pink and tingling from the hard sensation. HIs vest and shirt are gone now, puddled in with her coat, his leathers untied and pushed down to his knees, his cock hard and hot in her hand as she trails her nails lightly up and down, up and down, her palm pressed to the head and slick already with precum. Her own pants are rucked down, caught on her tall riding boots, and as he scrapes his teeth over her jaw, his fingers slide down, down, into her. One, two, rough but she's wet, so wet, so very, very wet.

He has good hands, nimble archer fingers, and it doesn't take him long to have her head falling back, smacking dully into the tree as she lets out a throaty moan. "Robin…"

He grins against her neck.

"Yes, my queen?"

Her stomach rolls, pitches, she hears Sidney in her head, years and years of _Yes, my Queen_ in that simpering, obsessive voice. One of her hands rises up, into Robin's hair, yanking his head back roughly, looking him in his startled eyes.

"Don't call me that," she nearly growls. and he nods, once, the barest flicked of a wince on his face as the action pulls at his hair.

"Then what shall I call you, milady?"

"You could try not speaking," she jeers, actually manages to keep her voice mocking and steady this time.

"I could, but I won't." HIs thumb flicks across her clit, once, and she bites her lip, sucks in a breath.

She breathes it out on her own name, "Regina."

"Regina?" he asks, and she nods.

"Just Regina."

Something in his expression shifts, warms, his lips curving. Regina gives his hair another tug.

"Don't go soft on me, Robin," she orders. "This is just scratching an itch. Nothing more."

"Of course," he agrees, in that infuriating way that makes it perfectly clear he thinks she's fooling herself here.

Regina glares, shifts her hand from his hair to his shoulder and pushes down. "On your knees, outlaw."

He smirks, goes willingly - has to slip his fingers from her to do so, but soon they're back inside her, one, two, and a third this time, making her inhale deeply. She shuts her eyes, then decides no, she wants to watch, and looks down to find him looking back up at her. When their eyes lock he begins to move his fingers again, quick and deep and she grits her teeth and presses her palms to the bark behind her.

God, it's good.

So good. Quick, pulsing bursts of pleasure radiating out from each thrust. She hasn't been touched like this in years, not since Graham, not by anyone other than herself, and his fingers are thicker than hers, have an angle she can't quite get, pushing and pushing against the front of her from the inside. It makes her knees tremble, makes her belly tense, her brow scrunch as her mouth drops open.

"You know," he muses casually, like he's not fingerbanging her roughly, like she's not panting and pressing her lips together to stifle her moan. "I've imagined a time or two what would happen if I ever found myself on my knees in front of the Queen. I have to admit, this isn't how I imagined it would go."

He's smirking at her, and she's quaking now, fighting to glare at him, fingers clutching at his shoulders as his own curl and pull inside her and _oh, oh God_ , the words spill from her, loud, unbidden, unstoppable.

Her voice is shaky and strangled when she manages, "And when I ordered you to them, this isn't how _I_ imagined it. Put that ever-wagging mouth to some use, would you?"

Robin grins, smug as her head snaps back on a sharp cry, and then she feels his tongue on her, pressed to her clit, then flicking against it, quick and firm and oh fuck, fuck, oh, oh no, oh God, that's more like it, but oh, she's about to, she's going to–

She comes with a desperate shout, her hips lurching into his face, her nails scoring angry red trails into his shoulders, words spilling from her lips, things like _more_ and _don't stop_ and _harder_ and _fuck me_.

It's that last one that finally draws him away from her, spurs him into standing, and then the world is spinning, and she's facing the tree again. He shuffles them back a step or two, and bends her forward with a hand on her spine. Regina braces her forearms on the tree bark for balance, for leverage, then bites down on her lip as he pushes into her from behind. He's thick, stretching her slightly, but he goes slow - for that first thrust anyway. Slides into her to the hilt, cursing softly, then grips her in those strong hands, fingers damp against her hip and begins to move.

Quick, sharp thrusts. Deep and hard. He fucks her, just as she'd asked, and for a moment she has this image of them, of her, with him, still partially dressed, bent over in the forest, getting fucked form behind like a commoner. _Mother would be so ashamed_ , she thinks darkly, and then she braces herself more firmly against the tree and pushes her hips back harder against his. Revels in being so thoroughly debauched, so entirely unregal.

One of Robin's hands shifts to the base of her spine, presses down, changes the angle of her hips just enough, and suddenly there's goosebumps flaring on her skin, her jaw stretched open, mouth a surpised, ecstatic O as sensation swamps her, pulls her under. Robin fucks her harder, her name on his lips, over and over like a chant, nothing much coherent falling from her own mouth as she races for the finish.

Orgasm slams into her like a punch to the gut, has Robin shifting his grip on her bucking hips and grunting as he tugs her back against him again and again, hips slapping into her rear as she cries out loudly enough to have the horses whinnying on the other side of their little encampment. She's scrabbling at the tree trunk, scraping up her arms, her hands, and not feeling a thing but the steady _poundpoundpound_ of his cock into her and the resultant gripping bursts of pleasure.

When he pushes deep one last time and finishes with a soft cry of his own, she sags forward, rests more of her weight against the tree and tries to catch her breath.

Slowly, the haze of orgasm lifts, and she becomes aware of her stinging palms, her abraded arms, of the soreness she can already tell will echo between her thighs come morning.

Robin's gone gentle on her now, one hand rubbing her spine, up and down, soothing, petting. It makes her want to purr, want to curls up on his palette for the night instead of her own. Makes her feel a little less lonely for once.

Tears prick her eyes suddenly, and she shuts them, sucks in a slow breath, lets it out again.

He says her name, once, softly, and she shakes her head. She pulls away first, straightening and shuffling forward, his softening cock slipping out of her, a wet dribble coating her thighs in his wake.

Regina yanks her trousers up with fingers that still shake, frowns down at the red marks on her arms as she does so.

He says her name again, and she thinks she hears regret there, and it pains her. She doesn't give him the satisfaction of looking him in the eye.

"Goodnight, Robin," she mutters, redressing herself in a swirl of purple. She strides away, over to where her bedroll is still tied up in a bundle, leaves him standing there covered in sweat, confusion, and a fair number of bruising hickeys.


End file.
